


Comfort Food

by shell



Series: Going Under [2]
Category: Hard Core Logo, Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-02-15
Updated: 2001-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Next set of stories in the Going Under series.  Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Swedish Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to the usual suspects (see notes for Going Under).

I wake up slowly, enjoying the sensation of Tim stroking my hair. My head is pillowed on his shoulder, and when I open my eyes and look up into his face, I'm struck once again by the incredible depth and beauty I see. I must have been fucking good this year, because Santa gave me this.

"Morning," I say, my voice rough with sleep and love.

"Morning yourself," he answers me. "Merry Christmas. And thank you Santa for being so good to me this year."

I smile as he echoes my thoughts. "Yeah, I guess he figured we'd both gotten enough lumps of coal in our stockings, metaphorically speaking."

"Mmmhmm," he nods, then kisses me softly. "So, what's the tradition for Christmas morning around here?"

"I don't know. I think we'll have to come up with something."

"I know of something we could both come up with. But maybe we should have something to eat first--we burned a lot of calories the last couple days, and you know I need protein to build muscle."

"I can think of a way to get you some protein."

He laughs. "Later, Bill. Seriously, I'm hungry--aren't you?"

I stop to consider. "Yeah, I am. Frosted Flakes again?"

"Not for Christmas morning. I think we should have Swedish pancakes."

"Swedish pancakes?"

"Uh-huh. You'll have to do most of the cooking--I don't think I can flip them from a wheelchair, or on my crutches--but I have my grandmother's recipe memorized. I think you'll like them."

"You have the recipe for Swedish fucking pancakes memorized. Your grandmother's recipe. You never cease to amaze me, Detective. Have you thought to ask if we have the ingredients? What's in Swedish pancakes, anyway?"

"Milk, butter, eggs, flour, sugar, a touch of vanilla if you've got it, and then whatever we want for toppings. Some folks like fruit, but I've always been partial to syrup. Or cinnamon sugar, that's good too."

"Toppings. I can think of something else that would taste good covered in syrup." And with that I latch on to his collarbone.

"Stop distracting me! I told you, I'm hungry. And I'll be more, uh, energetic, after a sugar high."

"Yeah, until you fall asleep on me again."

Swedish pancakes turn out to be really, really good. Really good. Not to mention, really fucking good. Actually, they're so good that both of us are incapable of moving for an hour after we finish eating them.

"Sugar high, Tim?" I ask him, holding my protruding stomach.

"Hey, I had a jones for pancakes. I was gonna do whatever it took to satisfy my craving, and start a new tradition at the same time. You've got to admit, for a new tradition, it's a pretty good one." He looks so proud of himself that I start laughing. He tries on his puppy dog look for a minute, then gives up and laughs right along with me, and I am so fucking happy.

I heave myself up and start cleaning up the kitchen, and Tim calls his mom. He talks to her for awhile, making arrangements for our visit to Baltimore, joking about where he's going to take me, who he's going to introduce me to. I join him on the couch, enjoying the sound of his voice and the feel of his arm around me. I pull his hand to me, start kissing his knuckles, knowing he loves it when I do that, and soon he's wrapping up the phone call. And then he's wrapping himself around me, pushing me back, kissing his way down my chest.

"Hey," I say, running my fingers through his hair, "I've got an idea."

"For another tradition?" he asks, looking up.

"Could be. Come on, let's get back to bed. There's more room there."

"Room is good," he says agreeably, holding me down for a sloppy kiss, still tasting faintly of syrup. Then he sits up again, and I help him back to the bedroom.

He looks a little puzzled when I tell him to lie on his belly, but then murmurs satisfaction as I kneel next to him and begin to rub his back and shoulders. I work slowly, thoroughly, massaging every muscle and kink until he's boneless beneath me. I know just how he likes this--pressure deep and hard in his upper back, especially his shoulders, sore from using the crutches; soft and soothing in his lower back.

I pull his sweats off, then mine, then nudge him over onto his side. I get behind him, start kissing the back of his neck, stroking his arms and chest and belly. He's got such smooth, soft skin, not much hair at all until you get down below his belly button. Yeah, there are some nasty scars, but he's so long and lean, and warm, and soft, and I can feel his heart beating in his chest beneath my hand.

I slowly work my way down his back, kissing, nuzzling, stroking every inch of that glorious skin. He's making those inarticulate murmurs of pleasure that I love to hear. I have to watch myself to avoid jarring his right leg, but he's got his left one bent up, granting my mouth easy access to the smooth curves of his ass. He gasps as he feels my lips, then says, laughing breathlessly, "If I told you to bite my white ass, would you do it?"

I growl at him and nip first one, then the other cheek. He grabs one of my hands and puts it on his dick, but I take it away after a quick caress and reach for the lube. I move up so my lips are against his neck again, my dick pressing up against his ass as I work first one, then a second slippery finger inside him. He's moaning louder now, writhing a little, pushing back against me, legs spreading wider as I work a third finger in. I want to make sure, though, so I whisper into his ear, "You want this, Tim?"

"God, yes, Bill," he says urgently.

So I put some more lube on my fingers, on my dick, remembering how good it felt, concentrating on making it that good for him as I press slowly in. I don't want to hurt him, please don't let me hurt him, but he's breathing those slow, deep, meditation type breaths, and I can feel him relaxing, allowing me in. Guess there's something else meditation is good for.

I take a few deep breaths myself, trying to maintain control. He pushes against me some more, I push back, and then I'm in all the way, feeling his tight heat around me, and I remember how he waited to move, to make sure I was okay, and I wonder how the hell he did it, because without making any conscious decision, I'm thrusting even deeper. I put my hand on his dick then, no need to wait any longer, and he thrusts into it, then pushes back against me, jesus that's good Tim, both of us moaning, grunting with each thrust. My other hand is stroking up his chest, and he grabs it, pulls it up and sucks three fingers into his mouth, another counterpoint to our thrusts. We speed up, getting to the edge, getting frantic, and I feel his balls tighten up, feel him tighten up around me oh fuck that's amazing, and then he's coming, and I can feel him coming, clenching and releasing around me, his teeth biting down on my fingers for just a second, and then I'm coming too, coming hard, like a fucking freight train, knowing once again how good it can be with Tim. Only with Tim.

I stay inside him for a couple minutes, sweating, breathing hard, my hand still around his dick, squeezing gently, feeling his breath rasp out around my fingers as I pull them out of his mouth and stroke his cheek. Then he turns, and I come out, and he's facing me again, hands cupping my face for a sweet, gentle kiss.

We just look at each other for a long moment.

"You okay?" he asks me at last, stroking my cheek.

"Way better than okay," I answer him. "How about you?"

He smiles sweetly at me. "Oh, I don't think I'm okay at all. Blown away, maybe. After all, I did just have my brains fucked out."

"Is that what that was?"

He nods solemnly.

"Well, I hope you have some spares, because I plan on doing that again. Often."

"Good."

"As long as you'll return the favor, of course."

"I give you my word." He's still smiling, but I think I can see a little shadow in his eyes.

"Your leg okay?"

He murmurs noncommittally.

"Is your leg okay?"

"It's fine," he says. "Yeah, it hurts, but that's nothing new."

"Let me see," I say, pushing him over on his back. He winces as he rolls this time, and I'm a fucking idiot for doing that to him, no matter how good it felt to both of us at the time, because his leg is one big tight cramp, hard as a rock, and his face is getting paler by the minute.

"Fuck, Tim, why didn't you tell me?" I yell as I fish for his meds and grab a glass of water.

"It just happened, Bill. There was nothing to tell until 60 seconds ago, so just chill out. It's just a muscle cramp." I glare at him as he swallows the pills, and he adds apologetically, "All right, it's one motherfucker of a muscle cramp. But it's not that big a deal." His face gives me the lie, though, paler still and grimacing as I try to work my fingers into flesh that feels like iron.

After a minute that must feel like an hour to him--he's swearing under his breath now, sweating buckets--I go with plan B and manhandle him up and into the shower, covering the casted parts of his leg with a garbage bag and directing a hot spray over the whole thing. Eventually, the muscle starts to loosen, some color comes back into his face, and we both start to breathe a little easier.

We wash up quickly and I get him back into bed. I haven't seen him this exhausted in weeks. I fuss over getting his leg elevated just right, and I think he falls asleep before I even finish pulling the covers up.

Way to go, Billiam. Way to fucking go.

****

I sleep the whole afternoon, even sleep through Billie's arrival. It's dark when I finally wake up and smell something fantastic. It smells like Sarah's homemade macaroni and cheese, and I realize I haven't called her and Ruth yet to wish them a Merry Christmas. I can hear soft voices and a tv on low--sounds like one of my Mighty Mouse tapes--out in the living room, and I wonder if Chelle and Kat have come over again, because it sounds like more than just Bill and Billie out there, although whoever it is is obviously trying to keep quiet.

I struggle into the bathroom, freshen up a little bit, put on some sweats, and when I head back into the bedroom I hear a tentative knock.

"Yeah, I'm up, come on in," I say, heaving myself back up on the bed. I really needed that nap--I feel a whole lot better now--but I'm not sure I feel up to making the trip out to the living room without some help. Bill pokes his head in and I smile at him, so he comes in, closes the door behind him, and sits down next to me, giving me that concerned look he's perfected over the last couple months.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" he asks softly.

"Better. A lot better. Not going to run any marathons, but really, Bill, I feel pretty good."

"How's your leg?"

"Sore, but nothing like it was."

He nods, apparently satisfied that I'm telling him the truth.

"Good. I'm sorry, Tim--I think I took that slave driver assignment a little too seriously, pushed you too hard. It won't happen again."

"I don't know about the slave driver part--maybe I spent too much time standing in the kitchen--but you damn well better do the other thing again, because I happened to like it. A lot."

He smiles at me. "We will, Tim. Just not for awhile, okay? Or at least not without giving you a muscle relaxant first," he amends when he sees he's about to get an argument. "Now, if we could get off the subject of our sex life, there are some people waiting out there who really want to come in and see you. You up for that?"

"Sure--what people? Why don't you help me into the chair and we'll go out there?"

"No need, Tim. There's been a group decision that we're all taking care of you tonight. You're getting dinner in bed." He turns, says in a loud voice towards the door, "Okay, kids, come on in!"

The door opens with giggles and suddenly three girls step into the room. Well, actually, Ruth doesn't step--she runs, jumps onto the bed and into my arms. Sarah's just a few steps behind her, and she climbs onto the bed, too, giving me a big hug and kiss. Then Billie joins us, climbing onto her father's lap and reaching over to give me a kiss as well. I hug Sarah and Ruthie hard, speechless, and turn to look at Bill, gaping.

"Merry Christmas, Tim," he says, echoed enthusiastically by the three girls.

"What--how--jeez, Sarah, Ruthie, it's so good to see you!" I finally manage to blurt out. "I thought you were in St. George--how did you get here?"

"Bill sent us plane tickets, Timothy," says Ruth excitedly. "We got to fly in a big plane, and the flight attendant gave us cookies and milk, didn't she, Sarah?"

"Yeah, and they were good," Sarah answers.

"Not as good as yours, Sarah," Billie interjects. "Those are sweet. Dad, can you get Sarah's recipe?"

"Wait a minute," I say, overwhelmed. "How long have you girls been here? And what time is it, anyway?"

"It's late, Tim, and we've been waiting for you to wake up forever, so we can eat. Sarah made your favorites, and we made chocolate chip cookies, too." Ruth has curled up on my lap. I'd forgotten how small she was. God, it's good to see them, and for a minute I have to blink back the tears that threaten. The girls don't notice, but Bill does, and he ruffles my hair with a smile.

"Sarah and Ruth got here around 2, and Billie got in about 3," he says. "Plenty of time for them to make some cookies. It's about 7:30 now. Are you hungry?"

"Starving. Bill, you don't know heaven until you've tasted Sarah's cooking."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he says softly. "I've got a pretty good idea of heaven already."

Sarah's cooking is every bit as wonderful as I remember, even better without the specter of Church Canyon hanging over us. We have none of the traditional holiday foods, and I know that's Bill's influence, trying to protect me from unpleasant memories. Instead, we have macaroni and cheese, broccoli, salad, fresh bread with peanut butter, fresh fruit, and more. I didn't think it was possible for me to feel more stuffed than I had this morning, but by the time I get to dessert I can only manage one cookie.

After dinner, they bring in the presents that Bill told me he'd mailed to St. George, along with ones from them to me, from Bill to Billie, and so on, and we have a wonderful time tearing them all open at once, all of us sprawled over the bed. Then Bill puts Ruth to bed. Once she's asleep, he gets out his acoustic. He and Sarah and Billie sing, and I listen. Billie's yawning after awhile, so he gets her off to bed, and Sarah and I have a moment to talk.

"How are you doing, Sarah? How do you like St. George, and your foster family?"

"It's okay," she says. "I really like school, and getting to go to the mall and stuff. And MTV! There are a lot of Jenifur videos, you know." And she sounds so much like a normal teenager that I can't help but grin.

"Yeah, I know there are, but to tell you the truth, I haven't seen any of them."

"You haven't? I know you guys have cable!"

"I don't think Bill likes to watch himself on tv," I tell her conspiratorially. "So he won't let me watch any of them."

"Well, maybe you should sneak a look sometime," she answers in the same tone. Then her mood shifts a little.

"Can I ask you something, Tim?"

"Anything, Sarah."

"Um, when we, um, before, Jessica said you had sex with other men. I told her it wasn't true, that you were just protecting us, but she said that wasn't true. But, uh, do you? With Bill?"

Oh shit--how to handle this one?

I take a deep breath. "Sarah, you know that I love you and Ruthie, but that I love you sort of like I'm your uncle, right?"

She nods.

"Well, you can probably tell that I love Bill, too, and he loves me?"

She nods again.

"Well, Sarah, the truth is, I do love Bill the way a lot of men and women love each other. It's not because of sex, not exactly, but I love Bill a lot, more than I've ever loved a woman. Does that bother you?"

"No, not really. It's like Gordon and Danny, right? They love each other, too, and I saw them kissing one day. It was weird, but it was okay, because it was Gordon and Danny."

"Yes, it's just like Gordon and Danny. The thing is, a lot of people think that two men loving each other that way, or two women for that matter, is wrong, is a sin. Now, I don't believe that, and neither does Bill, but a lot of people do, especially in places like St. George. So it's probably not a good idea to spend a lot of time talking about it with your friends or your foster parents."

"Well, if they think that, they're just stupid!" she says with all the righteous indignation of a fourteen year old bent on changing the world, and I smile with pride.

"Who's stupid?" asks Bill, joining us on the bed, putting his arm around both of us.

"People who think it's wrong for you and Tim to love each other," she tells him fiercely.

"I have to say I agree with you there, Sarah," he says with a smile. "But we still have to be careful, because there are a lot of people who disagree, and some of them can be pretty nasty."

"People like the ones in the Canyon," she says quietly. "Are there really people like that in St. George, Tim?"

"Not like that, god, no, Sarah. I would never let you near anyone like that again, you hear me? Never." I make sure she hears me. "You're safe now, Sarah. I promise. And if you or Ruth ever need anything, you just call me and I'll be there."

"We'll both be there, Sarah. Just think of us as honorary uncles, or something," Bill adds.

"Okay," she says. "I just wish--"

"What, Sarah?"

"Nothing. I just wish I lived closer, so I could see you more often."

"Any time you want to come out here, there will be a plane ticket waiting for both of you," Bill says. "And once Tim's up and about more, we'll come out to visit you. You're stuck with us, kiddo."

"Good. Because, you know, this was the best Christmas I've ever had."

"It was for me, too, sweetie," I say, kissing the top of her head. "By far."

"For me too," Bill agrees softly, stroking my hair. Then he looks at the clock and sits up straighter. "But it's almost Boxing Day, so it's time for you to get to bed, kiddo." I get another goodnight kiss and hug, and then they're out of the room, and I can hear him explaining Boxing Day as they head to one of the guest rooms. I think he promises to take all three girls shopping--I hope he knows what he's in for.

The next few days are wonderful. Bill takes the girls shopping, as promised, on Boxing Day, leaving me with strict instructions to take it easy. It's a little odd, being alone in the house--no one there but me, no facade to keep up, no work to do--although I do spend some time going over ideas for the Adena Watson Fund.

By the next day, Bill's apparently decided I'm no longer fragile, and we all head to the zoo. Everyone takes turns pushing my wheelchair, Sarah takes tons of pictures with her new camera, and Bill spends too much money on t-shirts and beanie babies in the gift shop. A great time is had by all. Chelle and Kat come over that night, and Gordon and Dan the next.

Too soon, it's time for Sarah and Ruth, and Billie the next day, to go back to their respective homes. I can't believe how hard it is to say goodbye. I'm not thrilled by what I've heard about their living situation, but it's stable, it's a two parent family, and it's safe. It still kills me to put them on the plane. Bill understands, gives me a hug in the airport as we watch the plane take off, right in front of several photographers.

The three of us spend Billie's last night at home, watching cartoons and eating pizza. The next morning, it's my turn to hug Bill as we watch the plane take off.

****

Seeing Tim's face when Sarah and Ruth came into our room was fucking amazing. When they'd come see him in the hospital, he was still in pretty bad shape--in a fuckload of pain and really weak. He'd been really happy to see them then, no question, but I don't think I realized how much those girls meant to him until I saw his face that night.

I recognized what was behind that face, what was behind the matching expressions the girls wore. I recognized it, but I sure as shit didn't know what the fuck to do about it. Those kids love Tim, and he loves them, and meanwhile they're living hundreds of miles away in fucking Mormon country. And I don't even know if he realizes that, for all intents and purposes, those girls think of him as their father.

I buy a couple more plane tickets right after they leave. I don't know what to expect from our upcoming trip to Baltimore, but something tells me having them visit us out there might be good for everyone concerned. Current plans have us staying out there about ten days, more than enough time to pack up Tim's apartment and get through the Russert interview. I know it'll be Tim's first time in his home town in over two years, and I wonder how it'll be for him. Shit, I still haven't been back to Edmonton, and it's been over six years since Joe died.

So yeah, I think having the girls come out to visit us in Baltimore is a good idea. This time I tell him about it--talk up how they can help pack up the apartment, how they'll get a chance to meet his mom, see the Atlantic Ocean for the first time, go to DC. He's a little hesitant at first, but he warms up to the idea pretty quickly, because he's really missing them. I get a little guff from the foster parents, but I talk up the educational aspects of a trip to the Nation's Capital, and they finally give in.

I wonder what's involved in becoming a foster parent. Maybe I should ask Alicia. I need to talk to her anyway, change some stuff in my will. But there are only a couple days left at home before the trip, days we spend mostly in bed. Yeah, the house is quieter with just the two of us--except when we're making noise.

I still can't believe it every morning when I wake up and find him there next to me, usually already awake and watching me, just like I watch him sleeping each night. I love to look at him--sleeping, eating, watching cartoons, smiling, and oh yes when he's naked and sweating and moaning. He gets that wrinkle on his forehead, screws his eyes shut, and throws his head back when he's coming--it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And the noises he makes, the noises I get him to make, are better than any song I could ever write.

Yeah, I have it bad. And I'm about to go on national television and tell the whole fucking world. Not that people aren't already aware we're a couple, but it'll be different being interviewed together. Tim wants me there with him, so that's where I'll be. The press release about the Watson Fund will go out on New Years Day, but we've already given Russert the heads up about it--hopefully that's what the interview will focus on, but who knows.   
Tim trusts Russert to keep to what we've agreed upon, because of Megan, but I'm not so sure. That's another reason I agreed to be there with him. Don't plan on saying much, but if Russert steps out of line, I'll be there.

And I'll be there when he packs up his old apartment, his old life, says goodbye to his home town. Maybe it won't be that bad for him, maybe it'll go smoothly, but I'm not so sure. I have a feeling he's going to need something like a visit from the girls, because I think this trip is going to be a lot harder for him than he's letting himself realize. He's so good at pushing away any unpleasant memories--too good, sometimes, because then they reach out and grab him when he's not expecting it. So the more he talks about how great Baltimore is going to be, the more I wonder how he's really going to feel when he's back there.


	2. Natty Bo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Bill visit Baltimore.

We're faced with reporters and fans at the airport--NBC's been advertising the interview, which is going to air on Primetime Live rather than Russert's usual cable show, and I guess people have been watching for when we were going to leave. Bill just ignores them all, walks with his Billy Tallent Punk Attitude, even while he's pushing my wheelchair, and the crowds part like the Red Sea. This time we get the NBC limo and Lear Jet. Once we finally land in Baltimore, where it's already dark, my mom's waiting for us.

She's not the only one--there's a whole crowd of well-wishers and Jenifur fans.

There are hugs and kisses all around, and before I know it both Olivia and Frankie have climbed into my wheelchair with me, and Bill's pushing all of us out, flashbulbs popping. I almost don't even notice them, because I'm so happy to see everyone, to smell the crisp sea air of home.

Turns out they've planned a bit of a party, so the whole group of us head over to the Waterfront. I'm on my second Natty Bo when I look over at Bill's face and realize what a fucking idiot I am.

Okay, so he only mentioned it once. But I remember now, and I remember reading about it when I did that web search so many months ago. I should have remembered it a hell of a lot sooner.

Bill's an alcoholic.

I put my beer down on the table, fighting the urge to throw it against the wall.

I struggle up onto my crutches, and he comes over right away to help me, and I feel like six kinds of shit. He doesn't really know any of these people, and contrary to his punk image, he's actually fairly shy, and even though he's been sober for years, he's got to be wanting a drink right now.

His face is a little pale, a little strained--someone who didn't know him well might not notice, but I certainly do. And he's smoking.

"Need anything, Tim?" he asks, smiling, but it's not his usual smile.

"Just to get you the fuck out of here," I answer, surprised at the venom in my voice. He's surprised too, not sure what I'm upset about, and I squeeze his hand, try to let him know I'm not mad at him.

"C'mon, let me show you the kitchen," I shout over some raucous laughter, gesturing for him to follow me to the back. Once we've made it past a gauntlet of people toasting my health, some of whom I barely know, we make it into the relative quiet of the kitchen.

"What's wrong?"

"Jesus, Bill, I'm sorry. I'm such an idiot. I never even thought about how you'd feel here," I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I'm fine, Tim. Not a problem, okay?" There's an edge to his voice, but I can't let this go.

"You don't look fine."

"Okay, so it's a little fucking weird--I don't usually spend time in bars anymore--but seriously, I'm fine, all right? It's not a problem. Come on, let's get you back to your party."

"We've been here long enough, I think--let's get going, all right? My mom's probably tired, anyway, and we have to drop her off before we go to the apartment."

"There's nothing wrong with you having a couple beers with your friends, you know," he says angrily. "I haven't had a drink in six years, and I'm not about to start now, just because we're in a fucking bar. I don't need a fucking babysitter."

"Shit, Bill, I know you don't, it's just--fuck," I mutter as Meldrick comes in, carrying my beer, a concerned look on his face.

"You okay, Bayliss? You're looking a little peaked, there--thought I'd come check up on you, bring you some more of Baltimore's finest brew. It's good to have you off that Buddhist kick, back drinking again."

"I'm fine, Meldrick, and I don't need any more beer," I say as civilly as I can, which isn't very. And I certainly don't feel up to a detailed discussion of my spiritual life and choices right now.

"Jesus, Tim, don't get your boxers in a bunch! People were just wondering if you were all right, is all."

"He's fine, Lewis. He was just a little worried about me," Bill says, too calmly. "But I'm fine, too."

"What's he gotta be worried about you for, Boisy? You sick or something?"

"Or something," Bill mutters, then looks at me. "Oh, go ahead, Tim, spread the news."

"Bill, wait--shit." I say as he disappears out the back door.

"What the fuck was that all about, Bayliss? I thought you two lovebirds were all happily ever after. Don't tell me there's trouble in paradise." His voice is just a little too gleeful--I know he wants me to be happy, but he's still uncomfortable with my bisexuality, probably always will be.

I glare at Meldrick until he shuts up. "He's an alcoholic. Something which I conveniently forgot about."

His face falls. "Oops. Sorry, Tim--I guess we weren't thinking about that when we set up this here shindig. You want me to go get him?"

"No, I'll go. Just--could you get the door for me?" I hate these damn crutches. Yeah, it's better than being stuck in bed, but it's still fucking annoying.

****

Baltimore in January smells and feels strangely familiar. There's a bite to the air, a salt tang, that reminds me of Vancouver. It's nice to feel a chill in the air, even though it's still pretty warm compared to where I grew up.   
That's about all that's familiar, though. I'm glad I've met some of Tim's friends and family before, because they're all waiting at the airport, and more at the Waterfront. A whole big fucking crowd of cops, in a bar across the street from the fucking police headquarters. Joe would be spinning in his grave, if he were in his fucking grave.  
It's a nice place--kind of cozy, has some atmosphere. Cop bar atmosphere. I've never been in a cop bar before, at least not that I know of. Of course, it's been a long time since I've been in any fucking kind of bar, so it all feels fucked. I'm practically the only one in the place not drinking, and some of them are drinking a lot. Especially a guy named Mike Kellerman, who seems to have a rather touchy relationship with Frank and some of the others.

I sit at one of the tables, near the back, watching Tim with his friends. He's working on a beer, and I can tell he's really enjoying himself. He's enjoying the beer, too, and it strikes me that this is the first time I've seen him like this. He's home, and he's laughing, making expansive gestures, trading stories, totally in his element, and even though Lewis is behind the bar, I get a sudden flash of Tim standing there, as he must have so many times. He may not have any official stake in the place anymore, but it's still his place. The picture of the three of them is still prominently displayed. Jesus, he looks so fucking sexy, so relaxed, so happy.

I watch his throat work as he swallows the rest of his beer, Lewis already pouring him another, and suddenly I can taste it, taste the beer on his lips, and I have to hold myself back from rushing over there and telling Lewis to get me a Natty Bo, which is a fucking stupid name for a beer. Yeah, like Molson Fucking Ice is any better, you fucking cunt.

I distract myself by spending some time chatting with Mary, who is every bit as gracious as Tim described, but soon she and Frank are leaving to take their kids home. So I sit back again, watching the party, watching Tim, starting to wish I were anywhere but here, because all I want to do is drink a beer with him. I tell myself that's all I want, just one beer, but I know it wouldn't stop there. So I light another cigarette, hoping that will satisfy me, knowing it probably won't. But shit, this is Tim's party, and I'll be damned if I'm going to do anything to fuck it up. Just sit tight, Billy--you can handle one fucking night in a bar.

I realize Tim's getting up, so I go over to help him. He's pissed off about something, pulls me into the kitchen.  
Shit. Where the fuck does he get off, telling me I don't look fine? I mean it when I tell him I don't need a fucking babysitter.

Then Lewis comes in, and that's just the last fucking straw. I'm about to go ballistic, so I do the smart thing and head out the back door.

It's nice out there--right on the water--but I'm feeling like a total fuck-up. It's Tim's first time home in a couple years, folks are happy to see him, and I have a fucking hissy fit and walk out the door. Idiot.

I hear the door open and look up. Tim's making his way over to the piling. I scoot over to give him room to sit down, but neither one of us says anything for a moment--he just takes my hand. Eventually I give it a squeeze, tell him I'm sorry.

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Bill--I'm the one who fucked up here," he starts, and I get pissed off all over again.

"Wait just a fucking minute, Tim. You did not fuck up. You didn't know this party was going to happen, did you?"

"Well, no, not exactly--"

"No, you didn't. You went along with a party that some people who obviously care about you planned. A party which happened in an old hang-out, one you've spent a lot of time in over the years, right? You were relaxing, having a good time with your friends. You forgot, for a little while, that there's a reason we didn't have any champagne on New Year's Eve. Not a problem. That's not a fuck-up, Tim. And I was fine, really. It wasn't a problem."

"You looked--Bill, seriously, I looked over at you, and you didn't look fine. Not totally. And I know that look. I was a bartender here for seven years, and a cop for a lot longer than that. I've seen that look before, on some faces I knew pretty well, and I know what it means. Don't lie to me, Bill."

Jesus christ. I am so fucking angry that I'm clenching my fists, almost ready to hit him. But then I think about what he's saying, realize I know that look as well--saw it on Joe's face often enough.

"Yeah. Okay, Tim, you're right. It wasn't totally fine. Not totally. But I swear to you, I wasn't going to drink."

"I didn't think you were going to drink, Bill--and I'm not trying to accuse you of anything. But I could tell you were thinking about it, and I didn't think it was fair that you had to be there, especially with me sitting there drinking a beer right in front of you."

"Why do you always have to be so fucking perceptive, Detective Man," I mutter under my breath. Fuck it.   
"All right, I admit it. When I saw you drinking that stupid fucking beer, it looked really good to me. I didn't really care what everyone else was drinking, but knowing I'd be able to kiss you and taste that beer, that sounded fucking great. You looked great drinking it--relaxed, happy, sexy as hell, and it made me remember how that first buzz feels, before you get really drunk, and I wanted to feel that with you. So yeah. I wanted a fucking beer. But I didn't get one, okay?"

He just nods at me, like all he wanted was me to admit it. Well, I fucking admitted it.

"So what now?" I ask.

"Well, for one thing, I'm not going to drink any more beer," he says calmly. "Or anything else alcoholic."

"Fuck that, Tim, that's not buddies. Just because I'm a drunk doesn't mean you can't enjoy some beer--that's not fair!" Even as I'm saying I realize how stupid I sound. But it doesn't stop me from saying it, and it hits some sort of nerve in Tim, because he just goes off on me.

"Fuck fair, Bill! It's not fair to you if I drink, and I don't care if you don't like it, I'm not going to drink any more. I gave it up when I became a Buddhist, and I gave it up again when I was undercover, and it's not any big fucking deal to me if I give it up again. It is a big fucking deal to you, and you are a big fucking deal to me, so just lay off the bullshit! Because you're not going to win this one, all right? I don't fucking care if you think it's fair or not, so shut up about it already!"

He's grabbed my shoulders, and he's shaking me, hard. We're nose to nose, and he's yelling, louder than I've ever heard him yell. Jesus. I knew he had a temper--I just never really saw it before. I'm kind of staring at him, and suddenly he lets go, sits back, looks scared.

"Don't you get it, Bill? You're more important than anything else. Beer--well, I like it, I won't lie to you about that. You, I love."

"Yeah, I get it, Tim. Fuck, I'd better fucking get it. No wonder you and Frank got so many confessions!"

I only mean it as a little joke, something to lessen the tension, but that backfires big time, because now he's looking at me with this terrified expression, like he thinks he committed some fucking cardinal sin by yelling at me. Which is really about as far from the truth as you can get, since the only reason he was yelling is because he cares so fucking much.

Joe knew I'd quit drinking, but he sure as shit didn't do anything to make it easier for me to stay quit. I still managed, up until the Jenifur deal fell through and I practically dove off the wagon, but it was fucking torture hanging out with him while he went through bottles and bottles, not to mention the coke he was sneaking behind my back, while I tried to stick to coffee and ginger ale.

Joe yelled at me a lot, but there was a totally different kind of anger behind it. It was familiar, and it meant he cared, in his own fucked up way, but it was still bitter, bent on causing pain. Tim's anger, while no less real, is cleaner.

"I'm sorry," he starts to say, but I shake my head.

"No need, Tim. Communication, remember? No holding back? That's all you were doing. And you were right to do it. You needed to shake some sense into me, so you did."

He doesn't seem to know how to answer that--just looks at me, still full of that special brand of self-hatred he seems to have down so well. I look into his eyes, stroke his cheek, try to let him know that it's okay.

"Hey, guys, what's going on?" Kay Howard says--didn't even realize she'd come out.

"Just needed to get a little air," I answer, since Tim doesn't seem to be up for talking. "It's nice out here, reminds me of home."

"Nice? Bill, I hate to tell you this, but it's freezing out here, hmm? And neither one of you has a coat. Why don't you boys come back inside, huh? Folks are getting ready to go, and they want to say their goodbyes."

"Sure, Kay--I'll bring him right in," I say, standing up and grabbing the crutches. I help him up and start to hand the crutches over, but he stops me with a hand on my arm.

"I, uh, I know I smell like beer," he mumbles sheepishly, "but would a hug be okay?"

As if that's ever going to be a problem. I put the crutches down, pull him into my arms, kiss the side of his neck. He does smell like beer, but he mainly smells like Tim, and I don't give a fuck about the beer anymore.

"I hate getting angry at you," he tells me. "I really, really hate it."

I take his face between my hands, get eye to eye again.

"Yeah, well, you'll have to get over that, Tim. Remember, I'm not going anywhere, even though you piss me off sometimes. I plan on pissing you off, too, for years to come. Those years with Frank? Those were just practice. He's got nothing on Billy Fucking Tallent when it comes to pissing people off."

That surprises a chuckle out of him, and he squeezes tight for a minute. I squeeze back, enjoying his scent and the warmth of his body, and then I help him back inside.

Lewis must have said something to someone, because some people are getting ready to leave, and even Kellerman's stopped drinking, although by the looks of him he'll be starting up again as soon as he gets home. People are easy about it, though--no one's acting like they have to treat me with kid gloves or anything. There's a lot of teasing, actually, joking about Tim's former flames, asking if we're going to go to eat at the Zodiac and see my competition, shit like that.

The banter reminds me of nights in the van, the kind of in-jokes you only develop after years of close contact with people, the kind of talk Joe, Pipe, John and I shared, even when we'd been apart for years. The kind of short-hand people have who've worked together for years in the same high-stress job. I'm a little jealous--Tim and I have our own shorthand, but he's got a bond with his fellow murder police that I'll never share.

There's some talk of heading across the street to the squad room, but I jump in and nix that idea. I know Tim has no intention of ever setting foot there again, and that's fine by me, so I make excuses for both of us. I see relief in Virginia's eyes, too--probably for different reasons, but she doesn't want him over there any more than I do.  
Virginia tries to persuade us to stay with her, but by this point we're both really wanting some peace and quiet, so after we get her home, I hop behind the wheel and Tim directs me back to Fells Point. He struggles going up the stairs, but he makes it--he's gotten a lot stronger just in the past few days. The apartment is immaculate--Virginia's been in, obviously, cleaning things up. It's an older building, lots of exposed brick and character. The apartment's small, just a one-bedroom, but comfortable.

Tim seems a little weirded out, which makes sense. A lot has happened since he was living here, after all.

"You okay?" I ask him.

"Are you ever going to stop asking me that?" His tone is annoyed, but he's smiling at me.

"Not planning on it, no. You ask me often enough. You going to answer me?"

"It's just a little strange, being here," he says. "In some ways I feel like I never left, but in other ways--in other ways I don't even know the guy who lived here anymore." He sits down on the couch, a bewildered expression on his face. "I was off fly-fishing when Gee got shot, and after the whole thing was over, I got out of here again as fast as I could. Being here, now, I can remember how desperate I felt, how completely alone, how I couldn't stand being in my own skin anymore. But at the same time, I can't imagine how I felt, because my life is so different now, so much better, that it feels like it's totally new, that I never was that person at all. Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah, Tim, it does, kind of." He hears the hesitation in my voice.

"You're worried about me again."

"A little."

"Don't be. I told you, it's different now. I'm happy now, Bill--you know that. I'm not alone anymore."

"No, you're not alone. But you're not a totally different person, either, and sometimes things catch up to you when you least expect it."

"Jeez, sometimes you're as bad as Frank."

"Tim, there's a lot of shit that happened, and some of that's got to be haunting you, at least a little. Don't pretend it's not there, okay?"

"As if you'd ever let me. Yeah, yeah, talking, no holding back, I know. But haven't we done enough serious shit for one night? Because I'd really like to sleep soon. In my own bed. With my own Hollywood Rock Star."

His voice starts out high, kind of whiny, in petulant Tim mode, but it drops at least an octave or two by the end. It gets rougher, too, and I realize it's been a hell of a long time since we made love this morning. Too long. Hours and hours.

"Where'd you pack the toothbrush?"

He looks confused for a minute, but then he chuckles.

"If I know my mom, there are two new ones waiting in the bathroom."

Sure enough, there are. Brushing teeth leads to a pleasant but short interlude in the shower, which is quite a bit smaller than mine, not that either one of us really minds. Then there's a rather longer interlude on the bed, which is freshly made up, also courtesy of Virginia. I wonder if Tim realizes his mom's got us figured out.

Tim falls asleep right away, as usual. Not me. Shit, it's not even midnight in California. I give Chelle and Kat a quick call, talk about some upcoming dates, and then I wander around Tim's apartment, looking through his books, cds, and videos, some of which surprise me. Not that I ever thought he was dumb, but I never expected he'd be into Delaney, E. M. Forster, and LeGuin. Then there's the fact that _The Joy of Gay Sex_ is cheek by jowl with _Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind_. No pun intended.

The videos are a bit more what I expected--lots of action, science fiction, and an entire set of Looney Tunes. That's my Tim. Maybe I should get him some Wallace and Gromit.

I sit down on the couch with _Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind_, figuring with a title like that, it can't be too obscure. It's tough going, but it's interesting, and I kind of get into it after awhile.

I'm not sure what time it is when I hear something and look up--it's still dark out, but it's getting just a little lighter to the east. Then I recognize what I'm hearing--Tim's having a nightmare again--so I go back into the bedroom.

"Tim, hey, wake up, it's okay."

He starts, looks up at me with wide, frightened eyes, his breathing harsh. Then he grabs onto me, pulls me down onto the bed. He's shaking all over, maybe crying, too, so I wrap my arms around him and hold on. His hands are clenched so tightly, digging into my shoulders; I can feel his fingernails cutting into my skin. Jesus. I've been through Tim's nightmares before, but this is worse. This is even worse than the one he had about Ryland in the hospital.

"It's okay, Tim, I'm here," I murmur to him, willing it to be true, to be okay. Because it doesn't feel like he's okay at all. Finally he's able to loosen his grip a little, slow his breathing down, and start talking. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, just a lot of nos and pleases that send chills down my spine. Then he goes kind of limp and quiet in my arms.

"Tim, Tim, talk to me," I say. "Tell me."

"Stay with me," he manages.

"Always, not going anywhere."

"Don't leave me."

"Not going anywhere, Tim. I'm right here."

"Fuck. FUCK."

"Talk to me, Tim. What was it?"

"Bodies." Jesus.

"Whose bodies?" I ask softly.

"First, it was the alley, it was Adena's body, and next to it was Janelle Parson's, and those twin boys, and then there were more, every murdered child I've ever seen. And then I looked down the alley, and there were more bodies, Bill."

"Whose bodies?" I ask again, even though I really don't want to know.

"Susanna, and Elizabeth, and Cassie. And Gordon, and Danny, and Eli. O-Olivia and Frankie. F-Frank, and Mary. And then--there were more, and I didn't want to look, but the ME was waiting, and I had to secure the crime scene, this was gonna be a huge redball, and so I kept going down the alley, and--" His voice chokes off.

"I'm here, Tim. Tell me."

"Sarah. And Ruthie. And you--you were next to them, with Billie. And it was raining, the rain drops falling into your open eyes, just like Adena's, oh fuck, Bill!"

All I can do is just keep holding onto him, reassuring him that I'm here, that the girls are safe, he'll see them in a couple days, we can call them later, it's okay, Tim. I'm here. Eventually we both fall into an exhausted sleep, Tim still clutching me for dear life, me holding him just as tightly.

He has the same nightmare the next night.


	3. Milk and Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of the trip to Baltimore.

My mom comes over to help sort through my stuff, decide what I'm going to keep, and she notices how tired I am, but she believes me when I tell her it's just jet lag. Bill's just as tired, maybe more, but that she doesn't notice.

There's not that much, really, that I want to take with me. My books, my fishing gear, some clothes. None of the furniture.

We go to see an orthopedist at GW to appease my mother's desire for a second opinion. They take x-rays, tell me I'm healing well, should be ready to have the external fixators off in another couple weeks, ask me what I've got lined up for physical therapy in California. They seem surprised by Bill's knowledge and active participation, tell him they're impressed with how good my pin sites look.

Then we go to meet with the NBC folks. The interview's the day after tomorrow, but they want to go over questions, talk about what to expect. I don't actually meet Russert, though--guess that will happen later.  
I'm so exhausted by the time we get back to the apartment I can barely eat. Bill follows me right into the bedroom, gets into bed with me, even though I know he's never going to fall asleep this early. He stays with me until I fall asleep, and he's still there with me when I wake up again with the same fucking dream. Once he gets me calmed down, he tells me we're not staying here anymore--starting tomorrow, we'll either be at my mom's, or at a hotel. Somehow, hearing that helps me to get back to sleep. Neither one of us wakes up again until noon the next day, which barely gives us enough time to get to the airport to pick up the girls.

God it's good to see them. I know it's only been a week since they left, but it feels like a year. The four of us have dinner with Frank and Mary that night, then head back to Mom's. She's got the guest room set up for me and Bill--doesn't say a word about it, just gives us both hugs and tells him where to put our bags. Sarah's in my old room, and Ruth is in my sister's.

I have the old nightmare that night, the one with Uncle George. Much preferable to the new one--I guess familiarity really does breed contempt--but it still wakes me up. I tell Bill to go back to sleep and go out to the kitchen for a snack, only to find my mom sitting at the kitchen table--I guess she can't sleep either. I almost turn around and go back to the bedroom before she can see me, but something in the weary set of her shoulders makes me stay.

"Tim--what are you doing up?"

"Bad dream," I say, deciding not to hide it from her.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure, Mom, fine and dandy," I say sarcastically. "Just another in a long series of nightmares, that's all. Nothing new--after all, I've been having them my whole life."

"What was it about, Tim?"

"Old demons, Mom. It's not important."

"When you were little, and you'd have nightmares, you always told me you didn't remember what they were about. I thought maybe--"

"What?"

"Was it about--about what happened to you?"

"That depends--which thing that happened are you talking about?" I regret the words as soon as I've spoken them, because her face falls and she starts to cry.

"Mom, hey, it's okay--I'm sorry," I say, but she shakes her head.

"No, I'm the one who should be apologizing, I think. We--I know we've never talked about it, but--Tim, what did he do to you?"

I stare at her for a minute. "Who?"

"George," she whispers.

My leg won't hold me up anymore, and I sit down with a thump.

"You _knew_?!"

"Not--not for sure, Timothy. I suspected. I tried to talk to your dad about it, but he wouldn't hear it, and times were different then, I didn't know what I could do, didn't know how to deal with it--"

"You could have _protected_ me, Mom! You could have told him never to set foot in this house again! You could have understood, could have let me off the goddamned hook instead of making me show up at every fucking family get-together! You could have put a lock on the fucking bathroom door!"

Were it not for the fact that Sarah and Ruth are asleep down the hall, I would be yelling at the top of my lungs. As it is, I speak in a harsh, angry whisper, my hands clenched and shaking on the table. I have never cursed in front of my mother, and she flinches with each profanity, tears running down her cheeks.

"I was five years old, Mom. That's when it happened the first time. It didn't stop until I was _eleven_. For six years, your brother in law sexually abused your only son! I told myself there was no way you could have known. If you'd known, you would have stopped it. Why didn't you stop it?!"

"I didn't know how, oh, Tim, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, I failed you, I don't know how you can ever forgive me; I can't forgive myself; you're right, I should have stopped it. I'm so sorry, Tim."

Then she puts her head down on the table, sobbing, and I find myself reaching over to squeeze her shoulder, because it's too late for her to protect me now.

"It's okay, Mom," I say half-heartedly, wishing I believed it.

"No, it's not, Tim," she answers, "it's not okay. I let you down. I wasn't there for you, didn't protect you, didn't take care of you, so don't tell me it's okay when it's not." She sits up, wipes her eyes. "It's not okay," she repeats. "It wasn't okay. But maybe now, maybe we can make it a little better? Tim, you're my son, I love you more than I can ever tell you, and I couldn't stand to lose you. Please don't hate me."

The naked despair in her eyes is so familiar to me that I start to cry myself. It's the same despair I felt when I came home and found Sarah had been raped. Even if I'd gone straight to my mother at the age of five, even if she'd believed every word and Uncle George never touched me again, I doubt she could have protected me from that first time. And I couldn't protect Sarah.

"You're not going to lose me, Mom," I tell her. "I think maybe it'll be better, now that we've talked about it, don't you?"

She nods, whispers, "I'm so sorry, Tim." I squeeze her hand. She looks up as I hear soft footsteps behind me and feel a warm hand on my own shoulder.

"Everybody okay out here?" Bill's voice is soft, tender as his fingers on my neck.

"Yeah, we're fine," I say with a sigh, leaning back against him. "Just having a little mother-son talk."

"I was just about to get Tim some milk," Mom says, trying to smile at us. "Would you like some, Bill? I think I have some cookies, too--I made them for the girls, but I think they'd be willing to spare a few."

"Cookies and milk, huh? That sounds great, Virginia." Bill kneels beside me, strokes my hair, looks at me questioningly as Mom busies herself in the kitchen.

"You okay, Tim? Looks like some pretty heavy shit went down here."

"Yeah, and yeah. Love you."

"Love you." He kisses me then, right as my mother brings a plate of cookies and a couple of glasses to the table. He breaks off with a smile and a quick caress, sitting down in the chair next to me, squeezing my hand under the table.

My mom's trying not to stare at us, her cheeks pink.

"Uh, sorry, Mom--didn't mean to embarrass you," I stutter. She meets my eyes and gives me a tentative smile.

"No need to apologize, son. It's a little hard to get used to, but I'm glad. I'm happy for you, happy that you've finally found someone who cares for you as deeply as Bill obviously does. And Bill, I want you to know that you'll always be welcome here--consider yourself part of the family."

He leans over and kisses her cheek. "Thanks, Virginia. You've already made me feel welcome. And I think you know already, but I just wanted to tell you that your son is pretty damned amazing." He pauses for a moment. "I love him, you know. More than I can say."

"I can tell. And I can tell he loves you--I've never seen him as happy as he is with you."

"That's because I've never been this happy before," I tell her, totally embarrassed. "So, we're all happy, we all love each other--let's get to the cookies already, before we wake the kids up."

After we finish our snack, Bill helps me back to bed and we make love, as quietly as we can, then fall into a contented, blissfully dreamless, sleep.

****

Tim's made reservations for an early dinner the next night. Reservations at Chris Rawls' restaurant, it turns out, which has me a little squirrelly.

"Bill, I promised him we'd come--don't make a big deal about it, okay? Besides, Chris is with his sous chef now, and I'm with you, remember?"

"I know, Tim."

"You weren't this jumpy when you met Julianna."

"That was different."

He looks at me, gives me a quick kiss, and thankfully refrains from telling me I'm a freak. Which I am, but I feel a little justified when we get to the Zodiac and this fucking matinee idol comes up to us and reaches over to give Tim a hug and a kiss. On the cheek, yeah, but even so.

"Tim, it's so good to see you! Come on in, your table's waiting. You must be Bill," he says, finally turning those baby blues on me. Surprises the hell out of me when he gives me a big hug, too, although I don't get the kiss on the cheek, which is probably just as well.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Bill. Welcome to Baltimore, and welcome to the Zodiac."

"Thanks, Chris," I manage.

"Come on, I'll show you to your table."

Chris stops by the table off and on throughout what I have to admit is an incredible meal. I finally realize what Tim meant when he once described the man as a southern gentleman. He's refined without being effete, warm without being overbearing, extremely polite, obviously very well-read, and totally comfortable in his own skin.   
It's a little frightening, how confident he is--true confidence, not like Joe's arrogance. By the end of the evening I think I can understand why his relationship with Tim didn't work out--Chris is almost too together. Tim needs somebody who can understand him, which means someone who's been through some really rough shit, like he has. I'm sure that Chris had to go through some shit to get to the level of confidence he has now, but I can also tell he grew up with loving, supportive parents. Tim wouldn't have been able to tell Chris about his childhood.

Tim notices me smiling. "Penny for your thoughts, Rock Star."

"If I believed in some sort of cosmic karma shit, I'd say we were fucking meant for each other."

"It sure looks to me like you are."

I hadn't heard Chris coming up behind me, but there he is. He sits down, puts a companionable arm around my shoulder, and gives Tim a bright smile. "It's good to see Detective Angst looking so happy for a change."

"Detective Angst? Good one, Chris." He and I share a knowing smile.

"It's good to see you looking happy, too, Chris," Tim says with a blush.

"Well, wedded bliss will do that to a man."

"You got married? Chris, that's great--congratulations! When did that happen?"

"About six months ago. I'm going to go round him up out of the kitchen--he's a little nervous about meeting you--calls you The One That Got Away, has you built up in his mind as this huge threat. But he'll be fine once he sees you two together."

They're both looking at me now as I let out a strangled laugh. "He was kind of nervous, too," Tim says by way of explanation. "But he's fine now." I manage to nod, and Chris smiles at me, pats me on the shoulder, and heads to the kitchen to find his partner.

"Sorry," I finally manage to wheeze.

"It's kind of cute, actually."

"Punk rockers aren't supposed to be cute, especially not when they're over forty. You wouldn't catch anyone calling Iggy Pop cute. Or the late great Joey Ramone."

"That's because Iggy Pop is kind of ugly, and so was Joey Ramone. You're not."

"You want to see ugly, you should see Bucky Haight."

"I think I'll pass, thanks. I like what I'm looking at now."

"Sexy's okay, if you're looking for an adjective."

"Bucky Haight is sexy?"

"That's an image I did not want in my brain, Tim. Jesus!"

"You're cute even when you're disgusted."

"Actually, I think Bucky and Joe fucked, which is even more disgusting."

"Were you jealous?"

"Fuck yes."

"I've seen pictures of Joe. He was cute. Sexy, too."

"He'd wear the same ratty sweater for weeks at a time. He was a bitch. But he was sexy. And he could be kind of cute, when he was putting on the charm."

"Which was how often?"

I laugh. "Not nearly enough. Now Chris, he's got the charm thing down pat, doesn't he?"

"That he does. Complimented my tie the first time I met him, and that's all it took for me to be thoroughly charmed. Frank couldn't believe it. Shit, neither could I."

"I'm glad you didn't stay charmed."

"You charmed me pretty quickly, too, as I remember. You offered me pizza. But you were more than just charming. You were intriguing, fascinating, challenging, insightful, and frustrating. Not to mention incredibly sexy."

"Why thank you, Detective Angst."

"You're welcome, Jealous Man."

I look up at the arrival of Chris and partner, a stocky-looking Asian by the name of Hiroshi. Chris is holding a bottle of what looks like champagne, but when he sets it down I see it's sparkling grape juice. I guess Tim must have told him. Hiroshi has the glasses, four of them, and what I'm pretty sure is a creme brulee.

We have a pleasant, relaxed conversation. Well, to tell the truth, I don't say much, just kind of sit back and watch--not the first time I've ever done that, won't be the last, but it feels better than it sometimes does. I don't feel as outside as I sometimes do, which is interesting given that the talk centers on Baltimore people and doings, and this is the only time I've ever done more here than play a concert and sleep.

I can remember so many nights, listening to Joe at bars, diners, backstage, listening to John ramble, afternoons and evenings forced to listen to Bucky Haight hold forth. Pipe used to get pissed at me, before he got used to it, before he realized I was the perfect foil for his rants against whatever was bothering him that particular minute. Never had the heart to tell him I usually wasn't paying any fucking attention. Back then, I'd make a show of being the quiet, intent listener, but half the time I was off somewhere else.

Tim's with the program, though. I catch him checking in with me, making sure, but I know he knows this side of me, can see that tonight's quiet is different from how I was at the Waterfront. And he knows I'm listening, just don't have much to contribute. In between talking with his hands, one will rest on mine, on top of the table, occasionally stroking my knuckles or returning a squeeze. And I just lean back in my chair and watch him, until I see the little hesitations, the line between his eyes deepening, and realize he's tired, or hurting, or both.  
It's time for me to speak up.

"Hey guys, this has been great--Chris, your restaurant is every bit as good as Tim described--but I think I need to get him home. He doesn't like to admit it, but by this time at night, his leg's usually bothering him pretty badly."

Chris is immediately solicitous, signaling for the valet to get our car, for one of the waiters to wrap up a fuckload of food for us. He refuses my money very graciously and ushers us into the car, this time hugging and kissing both of us, promising to watch the interview tomorrow night. I invite him and Hiroshi to stay with us the next time they're in California, and Tim gives me a grateful smile.

He falls asleep in the car, and I have to wake him up when we get back to the house. Fortunately, I manage to find my way back from the restaurant with only a couple wrong turns.

That night, for the first time since we got to Baltimore, Tim sleeps the night through without nightmares. I watch him sleep for awhile, never get tired of that, love how he looks even younger when he's finally free of all the day's worries. Then I curl up next to him, close my eyes, and fall asleep as well.


	4. Phish Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Bill are interviewed by Tim Russert.

Tim holds his own with Russert. He's in a suit and tie, first time I've seen him that way in a year, almost--the day we met. Clean-shaven, hair neat, glasses on--he's very impressive, even if he is wearing sweats instead of regular pants. You can't tell, anyway, because he's behind a desk, his leg stretched out and barely fitting underneath. Russert is friendly, personable, trying to put us at ease, but there's an intensity there as well. You can tell he's holding back a little in deference to his cousin.

I don't say much. As far as I'm concerned, Tim's the story here--the job he did in Church Canyon, the people he saved, the lives he's touched in his years as a cop, the plans he has for the Watson Fund. I sit next to him and watch him shine. Fuck, he's beautiful.

Later, when we watch a tape of the interview at the house, I realize they had a camera trained on me the whole time. So even though I barely say a word, I'm on camera a lot--looking like the total putz I am, watching Tim with naked love and devotion, there for all to see. Shit, it's not like I could have done anything different.  
Russert sees it too, which explains one of the questions he asks me. Could I describe the nature of our relationship, my ass. I glance at Tim for confirmation, but we've already talked about it, so he just nods.

"Frankly, Mr. Russert, the nature of our relationship is nobody's business but ours," I say. "But we're not going to hide anything, either. So, for the record, yes, we're a couple. We love each other. And that's as much as I'm going to say about it."

In the tape, the camera zooms in on Tim's face, smiling that gorgeous smile. At me. Yeah, it wouldn't have mattered what either one of us said--any shithead could tell just by looking at us.

Russert starts asking about the Fund then, and Tim's off and running, smooth as silk, talking the talk, selling the concept--yet another reason he was such a good detective, I guess. I can tell he's making an impact--all the crew are focused on him, and I can see Sarah, Ruth, Virginia, Frank, and Mary, and Russert's cousin Megan, too, off to the side, just as enthralled as everyone else. Including me, of course. And Russert, too--you can tell he's impressed.

Then he throws a fucking curveball.

"The issue of childhood sexual abuse is clearly very important to you," he says. "Can you tell me a little bit about why that is?"

Maybe he has no idea what he's asking. Maybe he doesn't suspect anything. There are very few people who know what happened to Tim as a kid, all of them in this room, looking at Russert in shock and anger. I'm ready to cut the whole interview off, but Tim catches my eye, gives a little head shake, so I settle for staring at Russert like he eats kittens for breakfast. Fucking asshole. He looks surprised at the venom in my eyes, so I guess maybe he really doesn't know.

It feels like ten minutes go by, but when we watch the tape, I see it's only a few seconds before Tim answers, speaking slowly, choosing his words with care, feeling his way through what he's saying.

"I've seen a lot of abused children. The Adena Watson murder was my first case, and it still burns me up that we never got enough evidence to charge the man who raped, strangled, and stabbed her. There were many other abused children I encountered as a homicide detective, and even more in Church Canyon. They all had a deep and lasting impact on me. I'm haunted by every one of them, wish I could have done something to protect them.

"All of us are affected by stories like Adena's, but some of us understand her story on a deeper level. One out of five women will be sexually abused at some point in their life. The numbers are a bit harder to quantify for men, because we're much less likely to report abuse, but I suspect the percentage is pretty similar.

"Childhood sexual abuse is no longer as deep and dark a secret as it was when I was growing up, but it's still a taboo subject for many people, especially male survivors. Part of what we're trying to accomplish with the Adena Watson Memorial Fund is education and advocacy, and a big part of that is getting past some of these taboos, so that we can get to the root of the problem."

He takes a breath, looks at me, squeezes my hand under the desk. There's utter silence in the studio as he takes his glasses off, cleans them, and speaks again.

"To answer your question, Mr. Russert, the reason the issue of childhood sexual abuse is so important to me is because it hits very close to home. When I was young, I was sexually abused by an uncle, off and on for six years. If I can help to protect one child from something like that, save him or her from that special form of hell, it will be mean more to me than I can say."

Russert takes a beat, looking sympathetically at Tim.

"Thank you, Agent Bayliss," Russert says. "We'll be back in a moment, here on Dateline with Tim Bayliss and Billy Tallent."

As soon as they call clear, I reach over and grab Tim's hands.

"Hey there."

"Hey."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Pretty good, actually."

"Fucking amazing is more like it." I reach up and run my fingers along his cheek. "Good thing you've got your industrial strength make-up on."

"You too," he answers, returning the favor.

"Well, I'm a putz."

"My putz."

"Yours and no one else's."

"Good."

I remember where we are and hold off on kissing him. Russert catches my eye, and I realize he's waiting for a chance to say something.

"Agent Bayliss, I sincerely apologize--I had no idea you were a survivor. I should have checked with you before I asked you about that. I'm sorry for putting you on the spot."

"You should be," I mutter, but Tim interrupts.

"No, Bill--it's okay, Mr. Russert. I wasn't expecting it, and no one's more surprised than I am how I answered your question, but I think, I hope, that making it public will help more kids tell someone. So it's all right."

Then we're back on the air.

"Welcome back to Dateline. Agent Bayliss, thank you for your courage in sharing your history as a survivor of abuse. I want to go on record here to apologize to Agent Bayliss for inadvertently asking him such an invasive question, and to thank both him and Billy Tallent for handling it with grace and dignity. It's been an honor to have you both here."

Russert wraps things up, puts in a plug for the new album that we'll be recording, and puts up the info for donations to the Fund. Then he asks Tim to introduce Sarah and Ruth, which he does with great pride and affection, and then it's finally over and done with.

As soon as the cameras stop rolling, the whole cheering section comes over, half of them still wiping their eyes. Megan starts to yell at Russert, but Tim stops her, tells her it's okay. One of the execs comes up, asks if we'd consider being on the Tonight Show or Conan, or maybe guest-starring on Will and Grace, which is just so fucking bizarre that I start laughing. They offer to help out with some public service announcements, too, which is a good idea, and I give them Mark's number to make some arrangements. Shit, should probably get Tim his own agent, to help out with all of this. Have to talk to Mark about that.

We head out to dinner, then back to the Bayliss home to watch the tape. Tim is embarrassed by how he comes off, but thinks I did great; I feel exactly the opposite. Hate the way I look on tv. Kat and Chelle call after it airs on the west coast. We get Ruthie off to bed, and then Sarah asks if she can talk to me for a minute.  
We go into the kitchen, sit down with some ice cream, Phish Food. Tim's favorite. She's looking at me with a really serious expression on her face, and I'm wondering why she picked me instead of Tim to talk to about whatever's bothering her, especially since it's probably related to what he said in the interview.

"What's up, Sarah?"

She looks at me for a minute, uncertain.

"It's okay, kiddo--just talk to me."

"Did you know?"

"About when Tim was a kid?" She nods. "Yeah, I knew. Didn't know he was going to tell everyone, though. I don't think he did, until he was saying it, you know?"

She nods again. "If I ask you something, will you promise not to tell Tim?"

"I don't know if I can promise that without knowing the question, Sarah. Probably, but if you're going to ask me about something that could get you hurt in some way, I might have to tell him."

She nods again, accepting that. Jesus, she's such a solemn little thing some times. Guess it makes sense, after all she's been through.

"What did you want to ask me?" I say gently.

"What--when he was a kid, with his uncle--is that why he's gay?"

Whatever I was expecting, that's not it. I lean back in my chair, take a second to think how to answer.

"Is that what you think? That he's bisexual because of his uncle?"

"I thought, maybe--I don't know. He's bisexual? So he likes women and men both?"

"Yeah, Sarah. Tim and I--both of us are. We're both bisexual. But we love each other, and neither one of us is planning on being with anyone else, male or female, ever again."

She's turning pink, and I probably am, too, but she screws up her courage and asks another huge question.

"Did--were you--did someone hurt you, too, when you were a kid? Is that why you're bisexual too?"

I think I see where this is going now. I answer her carefully.

"I got hit a lot when I was a kid--didn't have too great a set of parents--but no one hurt me the way Tim's uncle hurt him. I'm bisexual because that's the way I'm wired, I guess. It's the same thing for Tim--it's not because of what happened to him, Sarah."

The relief on her face is unmistakable, but she's got another question for me. This one I'm ready for.

"Do you know about what happened to me?"

"Yes. Tim told me. You were raped. I can't tell you how sorry I am that you had to go through that, kiddo, how sorry Tim is that he didn't find some way to keep you safe."

"It wasn't his fault--it would have happened a lot sooner if he hadn't been there."

"It wasn't your fault, either, Sarah. You do know that, don't you?"

"I should have gone home a different way."

"It wasn't your fault, Sarah. Just like it wasn't Tim's fault that his uncle abused him."

She looks up, startled, and she recognizes something in my eyes, I think.

"You're crying," she says, and it's only then I'm conscious of the tear working its way down my cheek. "Why are you crying, Bill? You were crying during the interview, too."

"Yeah, I am, and I was," I say with a sigh. I've cried more in the past year than I have since I was a kid. Funny thing is, I think it's been good for me to let go of that hardass attitude, even if it does make me a putz. "This is--this is tough stuff to talk about, isn't it?"

She nods again.

"Listen, kiddo. I'm going to tell you something, because I think maybe it might help you deal with some of this shit--um, stuff. Okay?"

"Something that happened to you?"

Jesus, she's smart. I nod at her.

"Yeah, something that happened to me, about ten years ago. I had a really good friend, someone I'd known since I was your age, someone I loved, named Joe. But Joe, he was pretty screwed up, and so was I, and we fought a lot, hurt each other pretty badly. And one night, Joe hurt me really badly. Raped me. And for a long time, I thought it was my fault. But it wasn't, Sarah. It wasn't my fault, and it wasn't your fault, what happened to you, and it wasn't Tim's fault, what happened to him. And that didn't make me bisexual, either. Okay?"

"So, I'm--it doesn't mean--what happened to me--"

"What happened to you, Sarah, was a horrible thing. But it wasn't your fault, and it's not going to suddenly make you attracted to people you weren't attracted to before. Is that what you're worried about?"

She nods sheepishly. "Stupid, huh?"

I give her a hug. "No, not stupid, kiddo. Not stupid at all. I'm glad you asked me about this. And if you don't want me to tell Tim about it, I won't, although I think he'd want to know. He worries about you, you know."

"I guess you can tell him. He's really happy with you."

"Someday, Sarah, you'll meet somebody who'll make you as happy as he makes me. I look forward to meeting that person, whoever they turn out to be."

"I kinda like Eli," she blurts out.

"He's a good kid," I answer. "And so are you."

"Thanks. Billie's a good kid, too--you're a good dad."

"Thank you, Sarah. I try to be."

"Tim would be a great dad," she says wistfully.

"Yeah, he would. Listen, you know he'll always be there for you, right? Even if you're not living with him? We both will be, no matter what."

"Yeah, I know that. I just miss him sometimes, you know? And my foster parents, they don't understand--they don't want me spending so much time with you guys. But it's my birthday in a couple days, and I told them this was what I wanted, and they finally said yes."

"It's your birthday? You're going to be fifteen, right? Well, we'll have to do something special. Come on--let's go find Tim and make some plans, okay?"

****

I guess it's a good thing my mom and I had that talk the other night. I don't know how I would have responded to Russert if we hadn't, never mind how she might have reacted. Hell, I'm still shocked I actually did it--told a nationwide audience.

I'm not the only one who's shocked, of course. My mom's fielding phone calls from all sorts of family members. She's handling it better than I would have expected--calmly telling folks that yes, it's true, and that she's proud of me for talking about it, for trying to help kids. And yes, she knew that I was together with "that rock star guy." His name is Bill, and he's very sweet, and he's good for Tim, so you can just get off your high horse, Lois.

I sit back and listen to her, wondering who this woman is and what she did with my mother.

She hands me the phone at one point. It's my sister, Nancy.

"Hi, Nance."

"Timmy--why didn't you tell me?" I can tell she's been crying.

"Nancy--he didn't--" My mom looks up at the panic in my voice.

"No, Tim. He never touched me. Jesus, I used to be jealous of how he doted on you, his favorite nephew--I'm so sorry, Timmy."

"It's okay, Nance. Really. Just keep Emily safe, okay?"

"I will, Timmy. I will. She's out with some friends tonight, but she sends her love. When are you going to bring your boyfriend over to meet us? Emily's beside herself--did you know she's been a Jenifur fan for years?"

"That's right, I remember. Well, maybe she can come out for a visit this summer and meet Chelle and Kat. I was thinking we'd stop in Chicago on our way home--would that work for you? We'd be there in a week or so, stay a couple days."

"That would be great. I miss you, big brother."

"I miss you too, sis. Give Ems a big hug and kiss from Uncle Timmy, okay?"

"You bet. I'll see you soon. I love you, Tim."

"Love you too, Nance." I hand the phone back to my mom, who continues to fend off reporters and defend me to relatives.

Bill and Sarah spend quite awhile in the kitchen, talking, and I have to fight my urge to go in there and find out what's going on. But eventually they come out, Bill announcing that the day after tomorrow is Sarah's birthday, and we spend a happy hour planning which museums and monuments and attractions she wants to see in DC. I hope Ruth will agree with some of the selections--we might have to split up for awhile, but that'll be okay. The main problem is going to be getting me around, but at least DC is wheelchair accessible.

Finally we get Sarah off to bed. The three of us sit down on the sofa--thankfully, the phone has stopped ringing--and relax.

"I was awfully proud of you tonight, son," my mom says. "You showed a lot of courage."

"I'm sorry it all came out like that, without any warning--I really didn't know he was going to ask me that, and then I didn't realize what I was going to say until I'd already said it. I know I put you in an awkward position, Mom--thanks for being so great about it."

"You still feel okay about it?" Bill asks.

"Yeah, I do. It's kind of a relief, actually. Hey, what did you and Sarah talk about?"

"About you, among other things. She thinks you'd make a great dad."

"She said that?"

Bill nods. "And she's not very happy in St. George."

"What are you saying, Bill?" my mom asks.

"I guess what I'm saying--Tim, maybe you should look into what it takes to become a foster parent. Or into adoption. Because I know how much you love those girls, and they love you just as much."

I must sit there, speechless, for at least a couple minutes. Why didn't I think of this before?

Finally, my mom touches my arm, and I realize she's been trying to say something.

"What did you say, Mom?"

"I said I agree with Sarah. You'd be a great dad, Tim. I agree with Bill, too--you should look into this."

"We can meet with Alicia when we get back to LA," Bill tells me matter-of-factly. "She doesn't do custody cases, but she can get us started, let us know a little bit about what's required, give us some names." He looks at me.   
"If that's what you want, Tim. What do you think?"

"Yes," I say finally. "Yes, I want to look into it. It seems like a long-shot--we're in another state, I'm openly bisexual, there's no blood relationship--but it would be amazing, really amazing, and thank you for thinking of it, because it would be really amazing."

"Okay then. I'm going to give Alicia a call--she usually keeps pretty late hours. No sense wasting any time."

"Good. That's good. But let's not say anything to the girls, all right? Not until when, or if, we actually know something."

Bill heads off to call Alicia, and my mom and I sit and talk for awhile longer. He comes back in a few minutes, says he left a message on her voicemail, and Mom gets up.

"Well, it's about time for me to get ready for bed. Is there anything you boys need?"

"No, mom, we're fine. Good night." She comes over and kisses us both goodnight. I don't know if it was my leaving Baltimore, or getting hurt, or just the fact that we finally talked about Uncle George, but she's undergone some sort of sea change, and I like it.

I must have some sort of bemused expression on my face after she leaves, because Bill grins at me and says, "I take it you like the new and improved Virginia Bayliss."

"You could say that," I reply, smiling back at him. Then he tells me about the rest of his talk with Sarah, and I stop smiling.

"I'm glad she asked you about it," I say. "That would have been a tough conversation to have."

He looks at me for a minute, puzzled. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I, uh--I used to think the same thing," I mumble.

"What same thing?" He waits for a second. "What same thing, Tim? You mean--did you think that's why you're bisexual?"

"Not exactly. I mean, I didn't really realize I was bisexual until pretty late in my life--or at least, that's when I finally put a label on it and felt like it was okay. But I used to notice other boys, other men, when I was younger. And I thought it was because of my uncle."

"Well, fuck, Tim, if that's what you thought, no wonder you didn't accept it until you were older. It took some balls to come to terms with that--a lot of people wouldn't have been able to. Shit, it took me ten years with Joe before I acknowledged how hot he made me." He pauses a moment. "Of course, it took me about two fucking seconds to acknowledge how hot you made me, so I guess it's a good thing we met when we did, huh?"

"It took you two whole seconds? Man, it only took half a second for me!"

"Love at first sight?" he asks me, laughing.

"Fuck no--lust at first sight. The love part happened later."

"About twenty-four hours later, for me."

"Really? You knew that soon?"

"I don't know if I knew, exactly, but as you may recall, I was perfectly willing to wait for you, for who knew how long. Not exactly typical Billy Tallent behavior. And I was pretty fucking blown away that night. I never knew it could be like that--and once I knew it could, that was it. There wasn't anything else that would do. Didn't matter how many groupies threw themselves at me--and I assure you, there were plenty, of both sexes--all I wanted was six feet five inches of my own personal Secret Agent Man."

"I don't know if anyone has ever passed up groupie sex for me before."

"You'll be doing it soon enough."

"What--groupies? You've got to be kidding!"

"Just you wait and see. Tim, you do know you're gorgeous, right? And now you're famous to boot, not to mention attached to a multimillionaire. They're gonna be all over you."

"They can try. All I want is six feet of my own personal Hollywood Rock Star."

"That, you can have. Anytime you want."

"I want."

"Good. Let's go."

And we do.

****

Once again, no one takes any notice of the fact that I'm in the common room watching the interview with everyone else. Jenifur is a popular band, and I've been pretending to actually like the godless, filthy, so-called music they perform. So I am able to watch closely, hanging on every word.

His obvious play for sympathy has an effect on some of the other prisoners, so I act out a similar shock and dismay. Inside, I am celebrating. He and his lover will be even more in the public eye now, and that will make their deaths even more meaningful. My Holy Father's message will make the headlines.


End file.
